


STRIKE Shorts

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Bullying, Dammit Westfahl, Gen, Humor, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Rabbits, Vegetarians & Vegans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5139602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A compilation of short stories about the STRIKE team, taken from my Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which the STRIKE Team Faces Giant Rabbits

“Damn it Murphy,” Rumlow shouted, shaking him by the shoulders.  “Get your ass in gear!”  


“I CAN’T!” Murphy wailed, tears rolling down his face.  “I just can’t do it!”  


“You have to,” Anders snapped, reloading her gun.  “I am not gonna have ‘died of fatal bunny wounds’ on my tombstone because you were having an existential crisis.”  


Murphy only sobbed incoherently.

“Let me handle this,” Steve ordered, waving the others back.  He crouched down in front of the trembling agent.  “Isaac.  These rabbits are hurting people.  And they’re an invasive species, right?  Having giant rabbits around will be bad for all the other animals.  And the ecosystem too.  You don’t want more people and animals to get hurt, do you?”  


“I -” Murphy sniffed.  “I’m sorry, sir, I just- I can’t -”  


“Murphy.  On your feet,” Natasha ordered.  “Go help the police organize the evacuation efforts.”  


And just like that, he sprang into action.

Natasha rolled her eyes at the rest of the team.  “Why didn’t you think to tell him that from the start?”


	2. In Which the STRIKE Team Uses a Label Maker

“Murphy, get your ass over here.”  


“Yeah, boss?”  


“Wanna tell me why my Axe spray has a label on it that says ‘Biohazard’?”

“I just got this great new label maker!  You’re always complaining about people taking your body spray, so I thought that might help.”

“You son of a bitch-”

“Ah ah, Brock.  You don’t wanna have to go to another leadership seminar.”

“Fuck off, Rollins.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Listen.  Murphy.  I appreciate your attempts to be helpful, but covering the whole Quinjet in labels is not what a covert op needs.”

“Why does the logbook say ‘Show to Non-Cephalopods’?”

“Oh, that’s the one we show to non-HYDRA SHIELD members.  The other one says ‘Never Show to Non-Cephalopods.’  I wasn’t about to put HYDRA on the labels.”

“Murphy.  Each one of these labels has the HYDRA logo printed on it.”

“Oh.  Uh, I didn’t see that.  Um, we could tell people it’s a band logo?”

“That’s it, Murphy.  You’re getting a whoopin’.”  



	3. In Which the STRIKE Team Attends the SHIELD Gala

“It’s such an honor to meet you,” gushes the young man, shaking Pierce’s hand vigorously.  That’s something, at least.  So many of today’s youth had weak, disinterested handshakes; it’s almost insulting.  “You inspired me to join SHIELD, you know, I read your memoir in college and it was just _life-changing_ , that speech you gave when you declined the Nobel Prize, it was - it was so - I actually have a tattoo of what you said, that peace is a responsibility and-” The man breaks off, laughing nervously.  “I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear that, that’s weird.  I’m rambling.”  


Pierce smiles graciously.  “It’s all right.  I didn’t catch your name?”

“My name.”  He falters, eyes darting around.  “Yes, my name.  I can’t believe I’m blanking on my own - Isaac!  I’m Isaac.  It is _such_  an honor.”  


Pierce continues smiling, waiting for the man to release his hand, which doesn’t happen until Rumlow materializes at his side.  “Murphy!” the STRIKE commander snaps.  “Make yourself useful instead of harassing the Secretary.  Go refill the ice buckets.”

Isaac scampers off, stuttering over a half-coherent apology.

Pierce watches his retreat.  “Is that one of yours?”

Rumlow nods, though his face suggests he’d rather deny it.  “STRIKE Agent Murphy.  Been with the team for two years, sir.”

“Is he one of ours?” Pierce asks quietly, and Rumlow gives a slight incline of his head.  


“What a sweet boy.”  Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Pierce begins to wipe at a smudge on his glasses.  He slides them on just as Isaac Murphy carries the ice buckets from the room.  “Lock the door, Brock, and don’t let him back in.  Ever.”  


[And Izzy was never invented to the SHIELD gala again.]


	4. In Which the STRIKE Team Discusses Dietary Restrictions

Rumlow glared at the pie.  He’d taken a knife to it because Murphy probably would have cried if he thought no one was going to taste it, but now that it was sliced, however haphazardly, the rookie would expect him to try a piece.

“Just eat it already,” Rollins muttered, rubbing his forehead.  “Do you want him to cry because we’re not celebrating his anniversary?”

“Who celebrates their one month anniversary in STRIKE?” Rumlow demanded.  “And who makes anniversary pies?”  


“Idiots,” Rollins said simply.  “Now eat it so the idiot will shut up.”  


“I’m not putting fucking fake vegan food in my mouth.”  


Rollins blinked.  “The kid’s a vegetarian.  Not like it’s a meat pie.  You’re fine.”

“Like hell he is.”  Rumlow glanced around.  Murphy had vanished, probably to go invite some more people to this pathetic impromptu party.  “He spent half the flight on his first mission looking up DC pizza parlors with fake cheese.  That’s a vegan.”  


“He brought milk and scrambled eggs as breakfast last week,” Rollins countered, raising an eyebrow.

“Ever heard of soy milk, dipshit?”  


“Ever heard of vegan eggs?” Rollins asked.  

Behind him, Westfahl wandered through the break room door, eyes falling on the pie tin.  “Hey, boss!”  


Rumlow ignored him.  “Bet it wasn’t real eggs.  Probably scrambled tofu or some shit.”

“Tofu’s not yellow.”  


“Is that tofu pie?” Westfahl asked, the smile slipping from his face.  “Because if it is, I’m throwing it in Murphy’s face.  What kind of shit is that?”  


“Shut up, Westfahl,” Rumlow said reflexively.  But then he remembered Westfahl had been the focus of Murphy’s motor mouth on the last mission, and whirled to face him again.  “Hey.  Murphy talks your ear off.  Is he vegan or vegetarian?”  


Westfahl just stood there blinking, like a video failing to buffer.  “Uh.  Vegetarians are the ones that do fish, right?”

“Dammit, Westfahl!”  


By the time Mercer came into the room, Westfahl was trying to crawl under the table to avoid the slaps Rumlow and Rollins were aiming at him.  They’d have stopped a few minutes beforehand, maybe, if Westfahl hadn’t said, “Wait!  Wait!  It’s _chicken_ that vegetarians eat, right?”

“Murphy said there was pie.”  She looked them all over.  “Should’ve mentioned we were beating up Westfahl, too.  He’d get a lot more people in here that way.”  


“Mercer.”  Rumlow stilled his hand.  “Do you know if Murphy’s vegan?”  


“Uh, yeah?”  She shrugged.  “Last lunch meeting, he made us switch restaurants because the pasta wasn’t eggless.  Not that I’m complaining.  His place had a better beer selection.  Why?”  


“But he eats eggs,” Rollins said, giving Westfahl a light kick to the ribs as he shuffled under the table.  “You sure he wasn’t complaining that the pasta had gluten or something?”

Mercer shook her head.  “No, he was going on about hatcheries throwing the male chicks into meat grinders or some shit.  Since they don’t lay eggs.”

“I found plates!” Murphy announced, holding them above his head as he walked in.  “And good news!  They’re not Styrofoam!  So this party is completely sustainable and—”  


“Murphy,” Rumlow snapped.  


Murphy froze, his arms still straight up.  “Yeah, boss?”

“Are you a vegan or not?”  


“Oh!”  Murphy lowered his hands.  He was practically glowing, and Rumlow settled in for a long, stupid explanation.  “Uh, circumstantially?  I’m ovo-lacto.”  


“Murphy’s got a period?” Westfahl asked, yelping when Mercer kicked him.  


“See, I’m an ethical vegetarian,” Murphy began.  “I think that it’s morally wrong to kill other animals for food.  Well, I mean—that’s if you can live without eating animals.  I can, but there are people stuck in food deserts or that have intolerances and _need_ meat to get necessary nutrients, or there are people who don’t have access to—”  


“Get to the point, Murphy,” Rollins said.  He was massaging his temples again.  


“Right!  Sorry.  Anyway.”  Murphy took a deep breath, one that didn’t sound like he was was getting any closer to the point.  “So, see, a lot of vegans view consuming dairy or egg products as theft or exploitation of the animals.  But I don’t think that’s necessarily the case.  If a farm is treating the animals properly, it’s really reciprocity, isn’t it?  The animals get food and medical care and a nice big field and a warm barn or coop, and the humans get extra eggs and milk.  It’s nice.”  


“Like Charlotte’s Web,” Mercer offered.  


_Or Animal Farm,_ Rumlow was tempted to say, just to see if Murphy was a complete idiot.  But then, if he did get the reference, he’d probably prattle on about the real meaning of the story for an hour.

“Right!”  Murphy smiled, though that quickly faded into wide-eyed solemness.  “But the thing is?  Most farms _aren’t_ like Charlotte’s Web.  Not any more.  They’re awful and they treat the poor chickens and cows like stock on a shelf instead of living, breathing creatures with feelings and personalities.  They’re stuck in these pens and cages and it’s like asking a human being to live their whole life in an airplane seat!  An airplane seat that doesn’t even have a toilet!  That’s not reciprocity, that’s sadistic!”

He stopped, chest heaving a little, and wiped at his eyes.  “So I eat eggs and dairy only if I _know_ where it comes from.  Just places I’ve vetted myself to make sure the animals are okay.  But at restaurants and stuff, or on missions or vacations or whatever, I don’t usually know where the people are getting their ingredients, so I eat vegan.”

“You can’t be a part-time vegan,” Westfahl said, sticking his head out from under the table.  “You’ll lose your super powers.”  


Rumlow really couldn’t help kicking him in the head.  Not too hard.  Just enough to make a point.

“Anyway, there are a lot of really great places around here to get cruelty-free eggs and milk,” Murphy said.  “And it’s not that expensive, either!  If you want, I can email everybody a list—I have a file saved on my laptop at home, so it’d be really easy.  Or this weekend, I could show you the farmer’s market where I—”

“Murphy,” said Rumlow.  “Shut the fuck up.”

At least the kid could make a damn good pie.    



	5. In Which the STRIKE Team Is Evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter requires some explanation. Once upon a time, people on Tumblr were angry that people were writing HYDRA villains with nuance and motivations other than "for the evil," so I responded with the following three drabbles, clearly demonstrating how HYDRA villains were meant to be portrayed.

Evil Brock Rumlow gave a maniacal cackle as he evilly loaded his evil laundry into the evil washing machine.  The washing machine was evil because the only water it used was that from the tears of small children.  Evil Jack Rollins had said it was stupid to run a washing machine on children’s tears because it would take an eternity to get enough water for a single load, but he underestimated the scope of Evil Rumlow’s sadism.  Plus, it gave Rumlow the excuse to mooch off of Rollins’s washing machine.  Evilly.

With an evil smile he pressed the start button on the machine before slurking back into his evil kitchen to make an evil ham and cheese sandwich.

*

Murphy evilly cooed at Winterkitten as the kitten evilly licked his toes.  Giving the small cat an evil pat on the head, Murphy evilly skipped to his kitchen, where he evilly set a kettle of water to boil.  Then he began readying the evil ingredients for an evil ratatouille made of evil organic vegetables.  He evilly sang some Vampire Weekend songs as he worked.

*

Brock and Jack had an evil dinner consisting of evil steaks and a most sinister side salad.  Then they made out evilly on the couch while watching _Road House._   There may have been some evil foreplay as well.


	6. In Which the STRIKE Team Does Not Display a Proper Respect for Moral Dietary Abstinence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not a happy one. It's sad and contains gross, upsetting depictions of animal cruelty, as based on the footage of such farms as seen in the Australian documentary [Lucent](http://www.aussiepigs.com/lucent), and the [Humane Society of the United States’ exposé of the Iron Maiden Hog Farm in Owensboro, Kentucky](http://www.humanesociety.org/news/press_releases/2014/02/Iron_Maiden_022014.html).  Be advised: each of those links contains unpleasantness, as does the chapter itself.

It’s not that Murphy didn’t notice Westfahl snickering when he returned from the vending machine with a Snapple in hand.  Westfahl was always snickering about something, and Murphy had learned to ignore it.  Ignoring Westfahl was basically a requirement for STRIKE, just like enduring Rollins’s singing and not hiding Rumlow’s body spray, no matter how foul and overused it was.

After opening up the Snapple, Murphy turned his attention back to his lunch, which consisted of leftover butternut squash risotto and greens with tempeh bacon.

He was content to pretend Westfahl wasn’t there, until he finished the meal and raised his head to find the man still snickering at him.  “What’s the joke now?” Murphy asked.  “Tell me it’s actually funny this time.”   _Want to hear a joke? Animal welfare_  wasn’t funny at all.

Westfahl, with a grin that could only be called shit-eating, pointed to Murphy’s empty plate.  “Just don’t know how you can stomach that ‘facon’ crap, is all.”

“Because it tastes just like bacon,” Murphy said shortly.  He’d given up trying to explain the suffering of pigs to Westfahl.  To most of the team.  They just laughed and asked how he’d gotten into this line of work.  Or said that for every animal he didn’t eat, they’d eat three.  


“Well, I’ll bet it did this time,” Westfahl snorted.  


Murphy felt his insides turn to ice water.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean, sure it tastes like bacon when there’s real bacon in it.”  


Murphy narrowly avoiding crashing into Captain Rogers in his frantic sprint to the restroom, bile rising in his throat.

*

“Come on,” Bridget said, rolling her eyes.  “We don’t have all night.  Don’t you realize how important this footage is?”  


“What if the cameras catch us?” Liam asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot.  “Or if we trigger an alarm?  What’s the penalty for this stuff?  Jail time?  We’re not minors anymore.”  


“If anyone’s going to jail, it’d be me,” Isaac said, pulling the video camera from his bag.  “You’re both white.”  His body was taut with energy, but unlike Liam, he wasn’t scared.  The world needed footage like this if they were going to realize how horribly their demands for meat were torturing these poor animals.

“We’d insist on the same treatment,” Bridget said.  “Besides, think of the headlines.  Imagine all the talk we’d start.”

 They circled up, resting their hands on top of each other.  


“We’re all earthlings,” Bridget said, and the boys echoed.  


Isaac felt butterflies in his stomach as they crept along the sides of the building, ducking out of view of every security camera.  Here he was, just a sophomore in college, striking out to make the world a better place.  They’d even crossed from Indiana into Kentucky for this mission.  He felt like a spy, slipping into enemy territory.  It was _exhilarating_.

Until they found the farrowing crates.

The smell was bad enough, a stench of urine, feces, blood, and despair, that struck Isaac like a palpable blast, threatening to bowl him over.  But the screams were worse.

Hundreds of sows and piglets, bellowing as they rammed and gnawed at the bars of their cramped cages.   _Screaming_ for rescue.

Isaac felt his body gasp at the sight, the sound, but he couldn’t hear it over the poor animals’ misery.

“Come on,” Liam said, giving Isaac’s gloved hand a squeeze.  “We’ve got to get this footage.”  


With a nod, Isaac swallowed down the lump in his throat.  Now more than ever, this was the most important thing he’d done.

He wasn’t going into this blind.  Isaac had read extensively about these horrible crates and the damage they caused online.  He’d cried three times and thrown up once.  But to see it in person, nothing could compare.

Sows were stuffed into metal enclosures that wouldn’t allow them to take more than a couple of steps forward or backward, unable to turn around.  They couldn’t lie comfortably, metal digging into their bellies.  They were forced to sleep on hard cement if they did manage to lie down.  Stillborn piglets lay near their mothers, left to lie there until morning, trampled by their hungry siblings.

Some of the sows were caked in their own feces; there were no workers in the night to rinse it away.  Isaac saw shrieking piglets with their little feet stuck in the grated floors.  Pressure sores caused by confinement.  Uterine and rectal prolapses from repeated births, some with _maggots_ crawling on their exposed organs.  And scarred little stumps where the sows’ tails had been cut off.

“This is so sick,” Isaac heard someone whispering.  He didn’t realize at first that it was him.  “This is _evil._ ”  


There was a water pipe leaking over one of the pigs, dripping water down on her back.  On impulse, Isaac stuck his hand under the pipe.  Even through the glove, it was freezing.  Another sow sat with her hind legs splayed out behind her, trying to drag herself forward toward a water dish.  Maybe she was paralyzed.  Maybe her muscles were just that weak from lack of exercise.

Isaac pushed the water toward the poor girl.  She drank it down in what seemed like seconds and _howled_  for more.

“It’s okay, baby,” Isaac promised, refilling the dish.  “I’ll give you as much as you want, it’s going to be okay.”  


It wasn’t until five dishes of water later that the sow didn’t scream once the dish was emptied.  He refilled it again, placing it next to her, alongside handfuls of feed.

Numb, Isaac stood up.  He drifted down a line of endless stalls, barely remembering where to point the camera.  It was horrible, unthinkable.  How could anyone—

There was movement in the corner of his eye, and Isaac turned his head.

There was a sow on her side, desperately jerking, piglets suckling on her.  Isaac stepped closer, looking down.

The soy was lying on one of her piglets.  He could see the faintly twitching legs.

She didn’t have enough room to move around, so she couldn’t avoid the piglet.  And now she didn’t have the space or strength to keep from crushing her own child.

Isaac yelped, dropping to his knees.  He reached around the piglets and slid his hands under the sow, trying to lift her enough to save the baby.

But by the time he worked the piglet out from beneath her, it had stopped moving.

One of the piglets sniffed curiously at its dead sibling before turning back to its mother’s teat.

Isaac wasn’t sure how long he sat, crying, before he felt Liam’s hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, Izzy,” Liam promised, even though it wasn’t, hauling Isaac up and hugging him tight.  “It’ll be okay.”  


It wouldn’t.

*

“Isaac?” Steve asked, standing in the doorway of the men’s room.  


He heard retching in response.

Steve found Murphy in one of the stalls, hugging onto a toilet.  Flecks of vomit on the seat indicated that he’d just barely made it.  “Isaac?  Are you sick?”

“I’m fine.”  Murphy didn’t sound remotely fine.  He sounded on the verge of vomiting again, and like he was crying besides.  Steve had assumed food poisoning when he heard Murphy gagging, but now he was back to his initial guess, made when he’d seen the man run from the cafeteria, looking so stricken: someone had played a nasty joke.  


Murphy was often the butt of jokes, which burned Steve up inside.  Sure, Murphy was weird and sometimes annoying, but he was nice enough.  He just wanted to do his job as best he could and be friendly to everyone around him.  So what if he got excited about whales and honeybees?

“Is it STRIKE?” Steve asked.  “Are they harassing you again?”  


“No!” Murphy scrambled up, wiping at his mouth.  “No, sir, I just—I ate something that disagreed with me!  That’s it.”

That sounded like bullshit.  The STRIKE team loved to taunt Murphy, from placing faux fur gloves in his locker to buying him DVDs of _Marley and Me_  for the annual Secret Santa, twice in a row.  Steve had never seen them reduce him to tears before, though.

“Isaac, if someone’s bullying you, then you don’t have to—”  


“No one bullies me!” Murphy insisted.  “They’re just—they’re innocent jokes, sir.  All in good fun.  I know that.  And that’s nothing to do with this, I promise.”  He bent down to flush the toilet.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to rinse out my mouth.”

Steve stepped aside, but he resolved then and there to eat lunch with Murphy whenever possible from now on.  



	7. In Which the STRIKE Team Has Dinner

“Izzy,” Anders said, irritated.  “I can’t understand a damn word you’re saying.”  


Murphy let out another burst of incoherent wailing, and Anders moved the phone away from her head.

“Listen.”  She rubbed the bridge of her nose, holding in a sigh.  “I’ll be over for dinner in like an hour.  You can tell me all about the evil of the drilling companies or the fur industry or whatever’s got you riled up this time when I get there.”  


“But it is the dinner!” Murphy sobbed.  “I’ve ruined it!”  


“You ruined vegetable lasagna?” Anders asked, arching a brow.  “Izzy, you make it like once a week.”  


“No!  It’s the meat!  I ruined the meat!”  


Anders stared at the phone, her free hand scrambling blindly for her keys.  “I’m coming right over.  Don’t do anything until I get there.”

*

Murphy huddled on himself in a kitchen chair.  A grill pan sat on the stovetop, removed from the heat, with a blackened lump of what looked like smoker’s lung inside.  Anders stared, incredulous.  “You bought meat.  Have you lost your damn mind?”

“I feel bad enough!”  He buried his face in his hands.  “It’s not for me, it’s for Cap!  It’s my month to host the STRIKE dinner a-and his metabolism is so _fast,_  he needs so much protein, and I didn’t want to be rude and s-s-send him home hungry so I - I actually bought _meat_  from one of those ethical, sustainable places I told you about but I’ve never cooked steak before and I kept crying and I couldn’t tell if it was done and there was _blood_  when I cut into it and I went to throw up and then it was burning and - and-”  


“You idiot.”  Anders thrust a damp kitchen towel at him.  “Wipe off your face.  For fuck’s sake, Izzy.  Captain America can make it through one meatless meal in his life.”  


“But I didn’t want to be rude!” Murphy sobbed.  


“Then you could have made it a potluck.  Or asked me.  My boyfriend’s a damn chef, you know that.”  


Murphy was still shaking with the force of his tears.

She sighed.  “All right, look.  Rowan was gonna make pizza tomorrow - he’s got the dough chilling in the fridge now.  I’ll ask him if he can make one for tonight instead, with sausage and pepperoni and all the stuff normal people love.  Then he can eat with us and everyone can be satisfied.  Pizza and lasagna’s a good pairing, right?  They’re both Italian.”

“I guess so.”  Murphy’s eyes were still watering.  


Anders took out her phone.  “Listen, I’ll handle this.  Whatever you paid for that steak - go donate twice as much to some animal charity, okay?  It’ll make you feel better.”

*

“This is nice,” Rogers said, picking up a PBR from Murphy’s driftwood coffee table as he settled down on the couch beside Anders.  “The whole team together like this.”  


“You were always with the Commandos, huh?” she asked.  Still at the table, Rowan was serving as referee for a tipsy arm wrestling match between Rumlow and Rollins.  “This whole nine to five thing must be different for you.”  


“We were close, but we didn’t usually get the chance to relax like this,” Rogers admitted.  “Always running around, destroying enemy bases.  This - it’s less exciting, but it’s a lot less stressful.  Finally feels like I’m starting to settle into this century, I guess.”  


“Oh, you’re definitely a part of the team,” Anders said.  


Shouting and laughter erupted behind them.  Somehow the arm-wrestling had evolved into a tickling match.  Rogers smiled, shaking his head.  Rumlow begged Rogers to join in when he saw him watching, but Rogers only waved him away.

“See?  You’re fitting in,” Anders continued.  “Hell, Izzy tried to cook _steak_  for you, that’s how much he likes you.”  


Steve stared at her, smiling hesitantly, like he expected her to shout ‘Psych!’ at any second.  “He _what_?”

Anders smiled, cracking open one of Murphy’s shitty beers for herself.  “Lemme tell you all about it.”

When Murphy returned from his bathroom, he didn’t understand why Steve caught him in a bear hug forceful enough to lift his feet from the ground.  But he didn’t question it either, grinning.


	8. In Which STRIKE Team Faces Obese Cats

“ _No_!”  


Steve dropped his clothes on the bench, racing to find the source of the cry that echoed through the locker room.  It sounded like someone was dying, even though he hadn’t heard a struggle.

He found Murphy on one of the benches, just changed out of his STRIKE suit.  His face was buried in his hands.

“Isaac?”  Steve dropped down beside him.  He nearly put an arm over Murphy’s shoulders, but stopped short.  Had he injured himself on the mission?  But surely Steve would have noticed before.  “What’s wrong?”  


It was then that he saw the phone resting on the bench beside Murphy.  Was someone in his family sick?  Or dead?  Did he have a partner Steve didn’t know about, and they’d just broken up?  “Isaac?  I want to help.  What’s the matter?”

“Tubbs ate all my sashimi!” Murphy wailed.  


Steve blinked.  Murphy would sooner cut out his own tongue than eat fish.  And he couldn’t imagine Murphy calling anyone ‘Tubbs.’  “What?”

“He ate all the sashimi!” Murphy repeated.  “Again!”  


“ _What_  sashimi?” Steve asked.  “What’s going on?”  


Murphy shook his head.  His cheeks flushed as he brushed his hair back.  “Nothing.  It’s stupid.”

“You sounded upset,” Steve said.  


“It’s just a game.”  Murphy sighed, picking up his phone.  “Neko Atsume.  You buy cat food and set it out, and cats come by and eat it.”  He tapped the screen, tilting it toward Steve.  A fat white cat reclined beside an empty dish.  “And I _just_  bought the sashimi and he ate it all!”  


“He makes you spend all your money?” Steve guessed.  He didn’t see why that was anything to shout over, but he’d seen games of Candy Crush turn downright violent in the past.  This wasn’t so different.  


Murphy stared at Steve as if he’d spoken another language.  “I don’t care about the money,” he said.  “You don’t feed cats to get rewards.  You do it because the cats are hungry.”

“And you’re upset that he took the food from the other cats?”  


“I’m upset because he’s unhealthy!”  Murphy’s voice rose in pitch again.  His face was flushing with passion instead of embarrassment now.  “Obese cats at a risk for diabetes, liver disease, arthritis—all kinds of stuff that can decrease the length and quality of their lives!  And there’s no way to stop him from eating everything!  There’s no way to help!”

“Um,” Steve said.  


Murphy looked on the verge of hyperventilation.

“Maybe you could write to the game developers?” Steve asked.  “Or...blog about it?  Get a campaign of fans to raise awareness?”  


“I’d ruin everyone else’s fun.”  Murphy stared down at the floor.  “Anyway, I mentioned it on Tumblr once and got a bunch of messages about how I hated fun and I should die.”  


“That’s awful.”  


Murphy only shrugged.

“Hey,” Steve said.  “I’ve got nothing to do today.  How about I get changed and we go feed some real cats at a shelter, okay?  Would that cheer you up?”  


Judging by the high-pitched squeal in response, it definitely would.


End file.
